This is my road
by psquare
Summary: Don't worry, Dean said as he gutted them, watching as their intestines coiled wetly to the ground. You're going to a better place. Tag to 5.16.


_**A/N:**_ I'd planned to do a tag ages ago, but nearly every attempt devolved into somebody beating the crap out of Dean. Finally I settled for this: a ramble from the man himself; no definitive central theme, just trying to attempt his state of mind after 5.16.

**Warnings: **SPOILERS for 5.16: _The dark side of the moon_, vague ones for the rest of Season 5. Swearing, blood and gore, angst-fest.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own _Supernatural_ or any of its characters.

_**This is my road**_

Dean Winchester could never quite figure out how his brother could almost always sway anyone with just a look -- he seemed to take those dewey puppy dog eyes and floppy hair and dimpled grin and use them as a weapon: a potent one at that. It had certainly worked on Dean for a good part of his childhood: it had led him to believe that he had been _enough_; that he was all Sam would need, all the reason for Sam to stay within the family. Even after Sam grew up and Sam ran away to college and Sam came back; even after that floppy hair and puppy eyes was accompanied by a Gigantor physique, the power was there: Dean believed he had been reason enough, or at least _part_ of the reason, that everytime Sam left, he would always come back. Always.

What a sucker he had been, huh.

He had never quite told Sam how much his brother's betrayal and association with Ruby had hurt, because he didn't understand it fully himself. Sam came back and Sam apologised -- and never really stopped apologising, come to think of it, in words and gestures and looks and -- and Dean believed he had forgiven him, but the memory swirled like a darkness in his blood (_like the darkness in Sam's blood_), coming in and filling his vision (_with demon blood_) till all he could see was Sam lying to him, cheating him, dropping him like a sack of rotten potatoes (_dimpled grin and tousled hair dripping with demon blood: you're not strong enough Dean, I would prefer demonic association over your non-presence_).

And now? To _know_ -- not just some random demon monologuing away to hurt him -- but to actually _know_ that even back when Dean had _believed_, Sam's idea of happiness did not in any way include him?

Yeah, that wasn't exactly what he'd call encouragement.

Every word now struck hollow. Every gesture, every damn puppy-dog look sent his way seemed like pretences set to mock him, maybe even delibrately _trap_ him -- _So, Dean, how's Team Free Will doing today? Oh, that's right. Pathetic. As usual._

_So stop following me around, _Dean wanted to snap. _Stop spewing my own feel-good bullshit at me when you and I know very well that we're all going to Hell in a handbasket._

But he didn't, because, really, what was the point? (and because a small part of him was afraid that Sam would actually leave.) He was tired -- sick, but mostly tired -- of having the same conversations. Of hearing the same justifications. Castiel had gotten off his case once he had given back the amulet (worthless, he had said, and just this once, Dean really had to hand it over to the angel for appropriate word-choice), so why couldn't Sam?

Why was it that the one man who was destined to be the meatsuit of the goddamn _devil_, was also the one man with the most _hope_? Sam's hope did not just warm Dean, it _branded_ him; seared him with the weight of _another_ responsiibility: _I need you, Dean_, he seemed to say with every waking movement, and Dean thought, that right there, was Sam's fucking _talent_: lies veiled by half-truths veiled by the perfect little brother facade (_you're not strong enough Dean, I'm a better hunter than you are; here's another chance for me to prove how worthless you really are_).

Yeah, well, Dean was not going to fall for that this time.

Was he still willing to give his life for his brother? Hell yeah, it was practically hardwired into his system; he could no more breathe ammonia than he could ignore Sam in pain or need.

But the Apocalypse was another matter; for the first time he was willing not to fall for Sam's facade because the Apocalypse meant a _future_, and any more of this desperate fight meant an endless journey of crap where even death was not a refuge. Sam didn't understand or maybe he didn't want to understand (Dean could never tell any more) but Dean _did_.

_People would die, but people would come to Heaven_, Pamela had said. _Is that so bad?_

His father's instructions -- _never trust the dead_ -- had made him instantly cynical (_too glib, too easy_) but now that God had told them to shove off and decided not to intervene, maybe it wasn't such a bad ending after all. Hey, in fact, the sooner you went, the better.

Dean came across Roy and Walt eventually -- decided to test this theory. They never really saw him coming as he ambushed them, serrated demon knife in hand. His cold fury carried him through the fight effortlessly, and soon he had them both semi-conscious, methodically ripping through their abdomens (one of his specialities, a dark little whisper from the back of his mind told him). Don't worry, Dean said as he gutted them, watching as their intestines coiled wetly to the ground. You're going to a better place.

It wasn't how he'd imagined it would turn out. In his head, he had imagined them in a lot of pain, sure, but he'd also imagined finishing it off a little quicker, maybe throwing in a taunt or two about how they couldn't screw with he or his brother ever again, drinking in their fear and horror. The murky periphery of his imagination sometimes put Sam in there, maybe helping Dean out, maybe stopping him, Dean didn't know.

But never like this.

Dean got that, because he had never expected the fierce jealousy that took hold of him once he killed Walt and Roy. They were _dead_. They were probably in Heaven, he couldn't be sure (but he figured they'd earned some brownie points for trying to kill the Winchester brothers, the perennial pain-in-the-ass for Heaven _and_ Hell). But there was no crazy-ass angelic douchebag pulling them back from their safe oblivion. They didn't have to experience the pain of dying over and over again (and as much as he came back mostly intact, dying still _hurt_). To Dean, seeing the light go out of their eyes was one last _fuck you, you freak_.

But Dean knew that in two months, all this wouldn't matter.

Dean knew that the Apocalypse would happen, that Michael was bound to wear him like a prom dress.

Dean knew _now_ that there was going to be an ending, and that ending might actually not be that bad, after all.

Dean knew that his endless road was not endless any more; that it had a destination where he could park the Impala and lie down and not have to get up and fight again.

And in that, Dean Winchester found peace.

_**Finis **_


End file.
